


Greg's Grey Days

by sherlockiosa



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:57:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1200165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockiosa/pseuds/sherlockiosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Reichenbach Fall, Greg struggles with feelings of grief, beginning to lose himself. Is there anyway that he can get his life back on track?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fanfiction. I'm hoping to add chapters one by one if that's okay with everyone! I hope there aren't too many annoyingly obvious inconsistencies!! Any comments would be greatly appreciated :) Thank you for reading x

Chapter 1:

Greg lit up another cigarette, staring out of the window at the wind ruffling the leaves on the tree, and the people going about their business on the dreary London streets. Greg had lost all his love and thrill for the city. It was a gloomy, grey day, the type of day which is so non-descript that any ordinary person may forget in the brightest days of summer, or the coldest days of winter. But for Greg, who had been struck with the constant headache for two years, the grey, unremarkable days were the ones he remembered the most. They were the days where he remembered what had happened.

He could remember it all so clearly, as if it had happened an hour before. Every snippet of conversation. Every scene. John’s voice down the phone. Well, it could hardly be called a voice. It sounded more like choking, so much so that Greg could hardly hear what John was even saying.

“John?”

“…”

“John, I can’t hear what you’re saying.”

“Greg. I need- I need your help.”

“John, seriously, I’m in the middle of a case right now. Where’s Sherlock anyway? Surely the genius can help you. He was supposed to be here two hours ago, by the way. If you see him, tell him from me that he’s a git.”

“Greg. Greg. No. Sherlock-“

“Sherlock what?”

“…”

“For God’s sake John, spit it out. I can’t talk to you and figure out what killed the poor bastard in front of me right now.”

“Greg. Can you- can you meet me later? At- um- Speedy’s?”

“Ok…7 o’clock. Listen, John, are you sure you’re okay?”

But John had already hung up. He should have realised that something awful had happened right then. How could he have not realised?

Greg stood up suddenly from his threadbear armchair, angrily asking the question over and over in his head. Each question was like a throbbing in his temple. He kicked his coffee table involuntarily and hard, and a jarring pain shot through his leg. 

In the filthy mirror mounted on the wall he could just about see his head and shoulders, worn as the armchair he had just risen from. His face looked somewhat blurred at the edges on account of the permanent unkempt stubble that had become his defining feature. The rest of the face was as grey as the sky outside, the colour that seemed to have taken over everything. The darker grey lines on his face made it seem that he had been drawn with a smudged pencil. Even the eyes and teeth had turned grey in the two years since it happened. He brought a mottled and smoke-ruined hand to his face and rubbed his chin, the same way he had done two years before as he gazed at his reflection in the taxi’s centre mirror two years previously. His old reflection though looked like a different person, one which was only worn out with the events of the day and easily replenishable with a good night’s sleep. The two-years-younger Lestrade’s chin was clean shaven, the face even, the skin naturally flushed, the eyes a warm brown. Despite being middle-aged, the previous Lestrade still had hints of youth about his features.

On the radio he could hear the detached voice of a newsreader. At first he didn’t pay attention, but then

“…outside St. Bart’s hospital today. After the events of recent months, it is unsurprising that-“

“Bit of a dull day isn’t it mate? Never liked grey days, I’d much prefer it if it just rained or was sunny – one or the other.” The cab driver turned his head over his shoulder, as his projecting voice masked the news report.

“Hang on a sec- what were they just saying on the radio? What happened?” Greg, alarmed, leaned forward, straining to hear the muffled radio.

“Think someone’s killed ‘emselves. Thrown ‘emselves off Bart’s rooftop. It was Baker Street you wanted, wasn’t it, mate?” the cabbie said, as they turned the corner onto York Street.

Without answering, Greg leaned back, now slightly on edge. It was the natural instinct of a detective to overthink at the slightest sign of a case. But this sounded like a simple suicide, nothing that Greg hadn’t seen before. The radio report was now babbling on about the weather.

He paid the driver as they pulled up outside Speedy’s. He wasn’t used to getting taxis, but he’d had to hand the force car over for the night for a service, much to his annoyance. Glancing up at the windows of 221B, he saw that there were no lights on, and the curtains were still open. It was 7:02pm. Sherlock was normally about by this time, unless he was still at Bart’s, doing some sort of analysis or something. Had he been caught up in what had happened? With a slightly knowing smirk, he was imagining Sherlock trying to deduce why this person had killed themselves… that was probably why he wasn’t back yet. After his many dealings with Sherlock, he knew that the consulting detective often lost track of time when involved in an interesting case. But Greg was eager to hear what had been troubling John, and stepped into Speedy’s, quite unaware that his world was about to be turned upside-down.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg spotted John at the furthest table, right in the back corner of the café. He had his head in his hands, his fingertips gripping the hair just above his forehead. Slowly, he pulled his fingers down his reddened face, and looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to gain control of himself. Greg was confused, and as he began to stride over to him, John looked over. As their eyes met Greg knew at that moment that there really was something terribly, terribly wrong. 

“John, what is it? Seriously, you’re starting to scare me now.” Greg said as he sat down heavily into the chair opposite John.

“You don’t know?”

“No. Just tell me.”

John was silent.

“It’s Sherlock isn’t it?” Greg’s heart was pounding, and even as he said the words, he knew he was right.

John was again silent, but Greg didn’t hurry him; his mouth was dry, and even if he’d wanted to hurry John into talking, he was afraid that if he opened his mouth he would be sick.

Eventually, taking a deep, long breath, John nodded.

“He’s dead. He killed himself. He jumped off Bart’s rooftop. I was there. I saw the whole thing.”

Greg sat in stunned silence. How could it be true? It just couldn’t be true. It. Could. Not. Be. True. Sherlock just couldn’t be dead. He said it over and over again in his head, trying to rationalise the situation. But in the depths of his heart he knew that it was true. John’s demeanour had been enough to tell him.

After a minute, Greg swallowed hard. 

“When?”

“This morning.”

Another silence.

“It’s been all over the news today. I thought you would have found out. I didn’t want to be the one who told you.” John’s eyes were distant, and he was talking in a monotone.

It had to be today, didn’t it, that Greg had decided to give Sherlock a bit of space after what had happened. He had tried to get Sherlock out of his mind all together. It had to be today that he’d absorbed himself in this case, in order to stop himself thinking about what he’d done. He’d been on his own and no one had thought to ring him, except John.

“He said it was all true.” John said, and in his voice Greg could hear that John truly couldn’t comprehend it.

The memories of the last few months flooded back to Greg in a montage of pain. Images of Sherlock flitting around crime scenes, the courtroom, Baker Street, the school, the disused sweet factory. Doing what Sherlock always did. Except Greg had begun to doubt Sherlock. He’d let Donovan and Anderson get inside his head. He’d arrested Sherlock Holmes. It all seemed like a huge mistake to him now. Sherlock was dead. Sherlock had killed himself, and said it was all true.

“He said he was a fake. He told me to- to tell everyone.” John was beginning to lose his robotic tone, colour was coming to his cheeks, but far too much. Angry tears were beginning to form at the corners of his eyes. Deeply, he growled “You did this. You doubted Sherlock. You did what Moriarty wanted you to do. And now he’s dead.”

Greg’s throat burned with acid. “John. I-“ 

“NO!” John was shouting now. “NO GREG! MORIARTY WON! SHERLOCK’S DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU! YOU, AND DONOVAN, AND ANDERSON! HOW COULD YOU HAVE BELIEVED THAT SHERLOCK KIDNAPPED THOSE KIDS?! WHY WOULD HE EVER DO THAT?”

Greg hated people shouting at him; normally he was the one who shouted. He felt ashamed, and didn’t know what to think. The doubt that had been sown when Donovan had first suspected Sherlock seemed to retract. John was right. But Sherlock had killed himself. Why would he kill himself if he wasn’t guilty? Was it one of Sherlock’s schemes? Sherlock had the best mind Greg had ever encountered. Surely he would have been able to establish what Moriarty was playing. But was Moriarty even real? His head spun.

He got up clumsily, and John began shouting again. Greg couldn’t hear what he was saying, his words were somehow blurred. He had to get out of the café, away from John, away from the guilt somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently on half term so have had more time to write, but I'm going back to college on Monday which means it'll probably be a bit more of a wait until the next chapter appears. Sorry :( Thanks for reading x


	3. Chapter 3

When Greg returned home, he sat down heavily at his computer. He needed to know what had happened, what Moriarty had done, what Sherlock had done. As he flicked through countless news websites, the same images of the day haunted him. The pale bricks of the hospital seemed to blind him, somehow, as if they were bright lights in the middle of the night, scorching his eyes. No matter how many times he blinked they wouldn’t go away. Countless articles and news pages suggested that Moriarty didn’t exist, that Sherlock had hired a man called Richard Brook to be his arch-enemy. Then, when Richard sold his story, Sherlock was left with his reputation in pieces. His solution: suicide.

With each one, Greg felt more and more sick. It was gradually beginning to sink in that Sherlock had committed suicide. He wasn’t going to be around anymore. And Greg knew that he needed him to be around.

That night, Greg didn’t get much sleep. Images of Sherlock and snippets of conversations circled around his head all night long. The first time Greg met Sherlock. The first time they’d been on a case together. Greg remembered how he’d marvelled at Sherlock’s ability to just look at a person and see their life story. The day Greg met John, and John told him that Sherlock had asked him “Afghanistan or Iraq?” How Greg and John had become friends. And he didn’t even have John anymore. How John had joined in on all the cases. How Sherlock had solved all those cases. Greg always remembered Moriarty’s ‘Great Game’, how Sherlock had figured out the mystery of the painting in less than ten seconds. He just couldn’t believe that Sherlock would make Moriarty up. Greg had always needed Sherlock; he was the best detective he’d ever come across, better than anyone at Scotland Yard, better than him, though he’d never admitted it. And then how Greg had begun to doubt Sherlock. How he’d listened to Donovan and Anderson after the mystery kidnapping. The scream of the girl echoed in his head. Greg painfully remembered how he’d arrested him. The guilt seemed to drown him.

For the next few weeks he got up, his face glazed with tears. He went to work and returned home in the evening, rarely able to recollect what had happened during the day. Then he’d get up the next morning and do it all over again. The crime scenes were hazy, the cases disorientating. He tried to hide it from Anderson and Donovan and all the others; they didn’t mention what had happened and neither had he. No one seemed to be that affected, and neither did Greg. But every night he would come home, open another bottle of whisky, and tried to play Guilt at its own game, drowning it back. But Guilt was winning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is such a short chapter but when I finished it, it felt like the best place when I was considering the next chapter (which should be coming reasonably soon!)


	4. Chapter 4

On the morning exactly three months after it happened, Greg got up. It was 5:06am. Without bothering to shave or even wash, he made himself a coffee and got dressed in the same clothes he had been wearing for five days in a row. He didn’t eat much nowadays, and his face was noticeably drawn if you knew him, but the others didn’t mention it, and Greg wasn’t even aware. When he got through his first cup of coffee he made another and sat in his chair watching the news and smoking until it was time to go to work. 

When he got to Scotland Yard at 7:45 there were a few people around. He unlocked his office door and headed straight for the coffee machine. 

Suddenly, an office worker Greg was fairly sure was called Sam poked his head around the door.

“Detective Inspector,” he said, “I just saw you come in. I’ve been told to tell you that you need to go over to Bart’s Hospital as soon as possible. They’ve got the results for the post-mortem of Richard Absturz that need to be collected.”

Greg, clutching a coffee cup, froze.

“Can’t you get Sergeant Donovan to go? I’m, er - busy at the moment.” Greg replied rather sharply, slowly trying to hide the steaming cup behind his back.

“She’s called in sick this morning, sir.”

“Well, Anderson, then?”

“Um, he was out on a drugs bust very early this morning, sir, so he’s got the rest of the morning off. I thought you knew that, sir.” Sam looked at him questioningly.

Greg was only vaguely aware of a conversation he’d had with Anderson the previous day, and quickly covered up his apparent memory loss.

“Oh yes, I remember now. Well, tell the Chief Inspector I’ll leave as soon as… well… in a minute. I’m sure whatever paperwork I’ve got can wait.” Greg faked a smile.

“Of course, sir.” The office door shut firmly.

Greg steadied himself on the desk. He didn’t want to go back to the place where it had all happened. Over the past few months, he’d always managed to get Donovan or Anderson to go over to Bart’s, using the excuse that he was too busy. As their boss, they could hardly argue with him. And when they left he would always have to go out for another cigarette and then try to avert his attention to the piles of paperwork that came with the job of a Detective Inspector. But today he would have to face his fear, and go back to the place where his friend had ended his life.

Greg drove to Bart’s slowly, as if he believed that by going slowly he’d somehow never arrive. But he did arrive, and the great white building loomed over him ominously. He was shaking. DI Greg Lestrade, who had seen death so many times, countless corpses, was shaking over being in the proximity of a suicide that had happened three months ago. He had to pull himself together. He was just on a case, that’s all.

He walked into the building seemingly boldly, and started to make his way to the morgue labs. The smell of the white corridors seemed to constrict his breathing somehow.

After a few minutes he reached the door of Molly’s lab. Through the glass of the door to his surprise he could see Molly, and in front of her, the back of John’s neck; they were deep in conversation about something. Molly had a file in her hand and looked agitated.

Greg was unsure what to do; were they talking about something important? Surely it had to be about Sherlock. And he hadn’t spoken to John since running out of the café three months ago. He hesitated, his shaking hand on the cold, moon-shaped metal on the right hand door. He opened it a fraction. Molly still hadn’t seen Greg’s face through the door. She was red in the face, frowning and talking quickly.

“John, I honestly don’t know what happened, I’ve told you already. I thought Sherlock had left when I went, you have to believe me.”

“But Richard Brook, Molly. Who is he? Is he even made up? It was Moriarty, I know it was, Molly, can’t you see?!”

“John, I want to believe that Sherlock wasn’t a fraud, I really do. You know how I felt about him. I still think the best of him. But you have to remember that however.., um… well… not like a man he was sometimes, he was still human. And I don’t know who this Richard Brook person is either. I don’t want to believe it but I have to. Sherlock’s dead John, I’m sorry.”

Greg breathed in and slowly pushed the door firmly. It made virtually no noise, but John seemed jumpy, instantly turning round to face Greg. Molly looked alarmed, clearly aware of the ice that was spreading between John and Greg. Greg cleared his throat, and avoided John’s gaze, looking straight at Molly. John, red in the face, swept past Greg and was gone. 

Greg cleared his throat again, dropping his gaze. His heart was pounding. Molly was looking at him, pulling on the sleeve of her lab coat. Her gaze had softened somewhat, and she stepped towards him.

“Greg.”

Trying to appear indifferent to John’s departure, Greg looked up again.

“Um, hi Molly. Yeah, I’ve just come for some post-mortem results. Um, Richard… Absence?”

Molly looked at him. He knew he hadn’t fooled her, but she didn’t press the issue just yet.

“Do you mean Absturz?”

“Oh yeah, that’s it. Sorry. Absence, what was I thinking! Ha!” His laugh was fooling no one.

Molly turned away, opening a filing cabinet and extracting a file from the well-organised collection. She closed the cabinet, and stepped towards Greg again. Greg held out his hand for the file. He was going to get it, and then leave. He couldn’t stand to be in this place any longer. 

Molly handed him the file. Greg took it carefully, not wanting to offend Molly by grabbing it and then rushing off too quickly. He stood there, rocking back on his heels, and holding the file in two hands by its shorter end, so that it was touching his thighs. All in a useless effort to try to appear casual.

“Thanks,” he said.

Molly looked straight into his eyes. He faltered. She lightly took one of his hands, and held it. There was something in her eyes, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was like she was desperate to tell him something, but was prevented from doing so. And there was also an understanding mixed in there. A deep understanding.

The two stayed frozen in that moment for a few seconds. Then Molly dropped his hand, and turned away, her cheeks a little pink. Greg cleared his throat for the third time.

“Thanks,” he said again.

He turned around and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while, but this chapter was more substantial than the others (as you have probably noticed) so needed a bit more planning and writing time. Next one may also take a while.....


End file.
